repurpose cigarettes as wicks to help dimly light the way,
pile up more emotional hardship until i can finally outweigh
and become the counterbalance - brought up by the opinions others,
by the thoughts of my fake friends, false families and lovers.
starting from the very back in a race i don't expect to win,
marking the times i've stumbled by placing notches in my skin.
counting the hours for dawn to bring the end of the night,
trying to focus on better days but the sun is always too bright.
how dare i, for a moment, not fear being replaced,
believed i'd be sustained on more than merely an aftertaste.
what a laughable attempt to rid you from my mind
by destroying myself for the hundred-thousandth time.
how much more do things need to go south
before i'm left with the sweet taste of lead in my mouth?
sorry that you broke my heart but i fear it is much, much worse.
i will turn my life from a long one into one that is real terse.

i am failing quite brazenly at this emotional balancing act,
i'm not keeping up my end of bargins or social contracts.
i am a horrid amalgamation of absence and negligence
sustained off the merits of my university  degree and intelligence.
always under the assumption that it would make things alright,
but i can't use that piece of paper to keep me warm every night.
i have no will to continue fighting, i'm penciling my surrender,
i sabotage myself by tying both my feet so tightly together.
my life's a burning building that's speeding fast towards collapse,
a filthy bottom-feeder feasting fiercely on the scraps.
i can never rid myself of insecurity or the doubt
if this is all life is i'm seeking the easiest way out.

this anhedonic apathy won't let me write about pretty things,
my pen races around paper pulling tightly at my heart strings.
i will try for fucking hours to purge you from my breaking head,
try to stem each infection before it gets the chance to spread
but it is aggressive like a cancer and akin to addiction, it reoccurs,
it has dampened each of my writings and has caused all my words to slur.
completely incurable alongside it's ability to accumulate
how turns the pressure on your shoulders into bearing fucking weight.
i personify the barely functioning parts to maintain some momentum,
if this depression is a poison, i'm drinking the antivenom.
moving ever so slightly closer towards my complete and utter stagnation,
i want to completely remove myself from this entire fucking equation.
cut out every piece that makes me human and replace it with newer machines
and stop exhausting you each night from running through every one of my dreams.
i guess we'll know by next year if i've managed to weather this storm
if i've rebuilt the bridges ripped down and burnt to keep myself warm.

i miss the contagious side of your shimmering effervescence,
and how the world never could seem damage your radiant inner essence.
how you managed to grow flowers even through the clay and salt,
there isn't a single thing about you that could be considered as a fault.
i'm trying hard to demonstrate all the emotion i don't often show,
you still elicit the same reactions than those from ten or so years ago.
the ghost of your magnificence still steps uncaringly through my head
haunting me one thousand times worse than any of my dead.
i really wish to hold your hand and fully uproot my whole life
and make all my mistakes and regrets take the form of a knife
that i will use to fight my way out of the hole in which i cower.
using all your sweet words to stop myself from turning sour.
the gems of aquamarine that you've passed off as eyes,
wash over me more effectively than any of your dyes
now I'm left trying to purge these somber thoughts from my head
of the only body i ever want to line the sheets of my bed.
turning away from the closed-minded arrogance i constantly display,
evicting all the demons to make a place for you to lay.
want to watch your hands to your hips while you debate clothes for the weather,
to see you dress for cold again and then realise it's an error.
i miss humid days with train delays and spending time with you.
i miss the feeling of every time i've ever managed to be close to you.
i love how you passed me every crucial thing except for the goddamned lighter
and how you've always rivaled me as a professional nail-biter.
being close to you is something i'd really like to work towards
so i can hear the tiny musician inside your chest bowing your vocal cords
to beckon me out of the deep, deep hole to which i withdrew
and i can find a place to feel at home and hopefully, so can you.

commencing onslaught of shitty love/self-depricating poems.

it's about that time again, believe it's well overdue
to write another hundred shitty poems about how bad it is to be you.
complain loudly about how you wish to stop gnawing at your fingers
or how you break down every time you find a place her scent still lingers
and how all the thoughts of joy which once swam peacefully through your head
were replaced abruptly by dreams of how badly you wish you were dead.
forever seeming to lose grasp on that to which you tightly cling,
always finding the most effective ways to completely ruin everything.
hack haphazardly at the wiring of your brain for it be hastily rearranged
into the form of a cage which may finally keep your melancholy contained.
holding tightly onto the broken heart and wheezing lungs you harbour,
keeping your fragile, brittle bones hidden deep within your armours
and mending the faults along the few that have already cracked.
constantly referring to yourself in the third person to try and lessen the impact
that you'll never be more than a victim of fucking circumstance
because you're far too fucking cowardly to ever take a chance.
this type of sicken behaviour will only ever lead you to being alone.
the mastermind behind the manhattan project of chances fucking blown.

i wish to live a life maybe just slightly less plagued
by thoughts of alchemist spitfire and dull turncoat blades
of martyrs manning palpits, ballistas littering the treelines
and the whetting of steel against my broke, brittle spine
i wish to remain until the warmth ends winter rains
to see spring turn to summer and autumn slowly to winter again
til' i drown in my anxiety and choke on each falsehood that i'm fed
til' all these darkened thoughts are cut sloppily from my head

having a good whine / 1-800-suicide x gravediggaz

let's listen to your narrator track his angst everywhere like usual
delivering his final words set to the theme of a fucking musical
slitting his wrists to mark all pathways previously traveled
and hanged himself at the alamo of his innermost, personal battles
shit man, i'm my wasting my breath fucking speaking
i'm burning every single bridge i can find just to keep myself from freezing
i feel like a fucking disease, but i'm sure i'm only benign
amplifying the genes for anxiety and furthering it down the blood-line
i won't crack under the pressure, by my own intent or by error
i'll take every friendship i have and rip and tear and sever
watch me remove myself from the gene pool before i piss in the waters
trim family tree's branches before they entwine with your daughters
in fact, i'll throw down different poisons to rot away at the roots
and salt the earth to be sure none of the seeds can ever bear fruits
i'll keep beating this dead horse and pull back hard on the reigns
and use sisyphus as a personification of my emotions once again

since kendrick and earl did it, i guess therefore
it's now perfectly acceptable to write about suicide outside of horrorcore
now i'm even more insecure when writing about my inadequacies
the people who now "give a fuck", the same that used to laugh at me
since aussie rappers put their addictions to instrumentals and dropped it
mental health issues trivialized down to a trendy fucking topic
so i'll scribble down a verse in the shape of a malignant magazine
i'll cock my pain and agony and squeeze to end this tragedy
try to dismiss the petty thoughts, go for a drive to clear my head
but every single passing tree is just begging for me to be dead
and camus if you can hear me, i've got the answer to your question
it isn't whether to kill yourself, it's when to succumb to the depression
there isn't even a choice to the matter, there's no free will here
it's only whether you place the gun to the temple or behind the ear
whether to smoke yourself to death or drown in a mixture of whiskey and rum
i want to kill myself in third person because i hate what i've become